


Everything and Nothing

by Arrestzelle



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Awkward Boners, Feeling B era, First Kiss, M/M, POV First Person, Road Trips, Sexual Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23904040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arrestzelle/pseuds/Arrestzelle
Summary: In 1993, Feeling B goes on a trip to America to analyze the music industry there. It is a complete failure, and Schneider is not happy. He wanted to take advantage of this opportunity, but the others are welcoming distraction. Despite their plans going up in flames, discoveries of another nature are made.
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christoph Schneider
Comments: 19
Kudos: 43





	Everything and Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't know the backstory, Feeling B did go to America for a US tour. I left out the aspect of them actually playing shows, because artistic liberty I guess lol? (Really, I'm just lazy.) Paul and Schneider did go alone to New York though, which I had to include, naturally. [Here](https://www.rammsteinpress.com/2015/09/23/alligator-ribs-and-roaches-under-the-hood/) is an article about their tour.
> 
> I rated this as "Teen and Up" because Schneider gets a big ol' grown-up boner, and that isn't very family friendly.

He sits alone on the beach. His white guitar rests like a fallen angel upon the sand, recuperating from the constant stroking and strumming it often faces under his slim, practiced hands. The sun is setting. Birds are calling. He watches it all, his wild, ratty bleached hair swimming in the sea breeze. It seems he stole Flake’s jacket. It hangs loosely around his body, billowing occasionally with the gusts of wind. The glow of a cigarette hangs above his fingers. His elbows are propped against his raised knees, his bare feet lost in the depths of the sand. He’s flicking the end of the cigarette with the nail of his thumb. Meanwhile, the fingers of his unoccupied hand are in his mouth.

He seems to be attempting to whistle with his fingers. I can see the way his torso is expanding and then sharply deflating as if he were blowing out harshly.

“What’s with him?” Flake asks me as he drops into the empty seat to my right, at the picnic table I had claimed (it’s covered in deep knife grooves and graffiti—maybe something typical of Floridians). I shrug. Why would Flake think I have the answer to that question? The question that I have wondered for years now?

“Everything and nothing,” I decide to answer, flatly. Flake huffs a light sound of amusement. I look over at him. He’s fiddling with his dangling earring, his mushroom-shaped hair rather haphazard under the wind. My curls are whipping me in the face, so I can only imagine how _I_ look. I briefly flick my squinting eyes across the unoccupied side of the beach, with trash and rocks and ugly trees—I don’t find Aljoscha. I am not surprised. He’s more elusive and enigmatic than Paul.

“Why are we wasting time here?” I ask, vocalizing my impatient thoughts for the hundredth time. Flake shrugs.

“Paul wanted to see the beach. I don’t get it. The beaches were prettier at Hiddensee. What’s so grand about this place? It’s dirty. And unimpressive. And humid.”

“I guess Paul will always seek something greater,” I muse as a joke more than anything. I really don’t care to think deeply about Paul’s character more than I already have. Flake sighs.

“That’s impossible when that’s already been achieved.”

“What’s that?” I ask, meeting his gaze—we’re both squinting through the wind. He smiles faintly, sourly.

“Finding that place that is the greatest.”

“Oh? What place is that?” I decide to humor him, already knowing what he’s going to say. Flake huffs. He fixes his gaze out towards the horizon, where the subject of our conversation sits in the center of the descending sun.

“Any place with friends. With the people you can call family. You know? In places like this, distractions come and go. People, especially Paul, don’t like to focus on what matters.”

“Considering how this trip has been going, I am inclined to agree,” I wryly say. I definitely sound petty over this shit, but I _am_ annoyed. I wanted to be productive. I wanted to take strides. I had hope for something great and bounding. Now we’re sitting on a trashy beach in Florida with no goal in sight. And Paul is now whistling from where he sits on the beach with his guitar. Flake is silent. Maybe he can tell I don’t care about what he’s saying. I’m still pissed. Another wasted day.

Paul suddenly gets up. He snatches up his guitar. I can see his cigarette pierce the darkening horizon, brightening as he sucks it down. Seeing the way he saunters back, as if he has no care in or for the world, irritates me as well. He can be so pretentious sometimes. I don’t want to talk to him or even hear him right now. I get up with a creak of the picnic table. Paul is approaching, and I can see him now across the sand between us. His eyes are trained on me. He lifts a hand and waves. I turn and leave, shoving my hands into the pocket of my hoodie, hanging my head to bear through the rush of the wind. My long hair is wild around my face. Suddenly, I feel unusually isolated and unwanted.

I end up in one of the portable toilets near our van—I wouldn’t put it past them to speed off if I decided to hide elsewhere. At least here, I can hear them if they get in the car. I lock the door, close the toilet lid, and light up a cigarette, cupping a broad hand around the flame of my nearly-empty disposable lighter I bought from some corner gas station.

I stare at it in my palm. It has a weird symbol on it. Maybe an American brand. I take a drag and enjoy the smoky feeling curling in my throat and on my tongue. I like smoking for the activity of it, not so much the nicotine. Something to occupy myself with. Yet, the thought of having to distract myself brings me back to my issue: my feelings regarding Paul. But are they truly important? Not really, but even so, they still spin around in my head.

I wanted to _do_ something today. But I also wanted to walk out on that sand. I wanted to throw my shoes into the ocean and sit down next to Paul. I wanted to show him how to whistle with your fingers. And share that cigarette. None of those things are productive, nor would I be happy doing them. Maybe I’m seeking the greater things as well. Things I’m not aware of. Maybe, I’m looking for happiness in places where I know I won’t find them. Stupid. I’m being stupid.

I hear the crunching of footsteps. Paul’s voice, explaining something about the moon to Flake, as if he knew _all_ about it. I sit hunched over on the closed toilet, cigarette lamely clutched between two fingers, panning my gaze across the interior of the enclosed area as I listen to them.

“I read that it controls the waves,” Flake says factually. I can hear them come to a stop nearby.

“With gravity or something, right?”

“I don’t know,” Flake replies—I can picture the lame shrug already. Paul snorts.

“We don’t know anything, do we?”

No, I agree internally with an eyeroll. Flake’s deeper voice picks up again.

“We know a lot. We know how to make music, Paul.”

“Who gives a fuck about that?”

“A lot of people.”

“Especially Schneider.” I can hear the smirk in his voice. “He _really_ cares.”

Flake is silent. They know I’m in here. Three footsteps closer to the portable toilet, and then a rap of knuckles against the gaudy colored door.

“Schneider, come on, let’s go. I’m starving. Let’s grab some food.”

“Fuck off,” I grumble under my breath, feeling particularly childish. I wanted to be left alone. He snorts from the other side.

“I heard that!”

“Good,” I snap back, my irritation coming back full-force. I get up with a crunch of stuck gravel under my shoes, slam up the toilet lid, and toss the cigarette into the blue liquid below. I shove open the door, a disgusting, sliver of hope that I’ll hit Paul with it crawling under my skin. I don’t. He had stepped back. I am disappointed. He crosses his arms and looks at me. He just looks at me. In a way that seems almost knowing, and it makes me want to grab him by the ponytail and throw him to the ground. I’m usually not this violent of a person, but God, I’m _not_ in a good mood, and his stupid smug-like smugness is getting on my last nerve.

“Shall I hold your hand? Will that make you feel better?” he asks.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I snarl out with exasperation, my face heating up from both anger and embarrassment. I turn away, grinding my fingers into my eyes. I can hear them both following me to the van. I reach out to grab the handle and slide the door open with a slam. Aljoscha had been sleeping in the driver’s seat. He jolts to consciousness and slaps a hand against the steering wheel.

“Oi, come in, make yourself at home!” he snaps, and then groans, collapsing back against the driver’s seat. The enthusiasm we first found in this road trip had vanished. First, dealing with that shithole of a car at the start of this failure of a trip, and now, finding no purpose in anything. I drop into the backseat and shove the window blinds up to purposefully stare out the window. I am quite well aware of how petulant I’m being, but I cannot stand to even look at the others right now. Flake, the tall, awkward beansprout, climbs in after me and drops into the single seat behind the driver’s seat. Paul slides the door shut with a rattling slam, and then pops the passenger door open.

“Hey, still got some peanuts up here!” Paul calls as if that really matters, shaking the bag tantalizingly while shutting the door behind himself. I almost smile because it was such an absurd thing to bring attention to after all that’s happened. I peek over past my hair. Paul is looking into the back of the car, holding up the bag of peanuts. He meets my gaze and arches a brow.

“Are you really using those half-eaten peanuts as a peace offering?” I try to keep the blade out of my voice, but it’s difficult. It comes out sharper than I meant. Paul rolls his eyes. He flops back into his seat and kicks his sandy feet up onto the dashboard. I stare at the clumps of sand wedged between his toes. Idiot. He should have rinsed them at the shower inside the men’s restroom.

We end up at some Asian place. With his German to English pocketbook, and Paul’s futile attempts at “helping”, Aljoscha acquires some platters of various kinds of meat, rice, noodles, vegetables. We don’t really have the funds for this kind of indulgence. I don’t have the energy to care. Paul immediately begins to dig in, to my immediate right.

Across from us, Aljoscha and Flake share that side of the booth. Why Paul felt so inclined to slide in next to me still boggles my mind. He seems insistent on putting me in uncomfortable situations. I nearly wanted to shove him out again. Instead, he’s crowding me in the corner, and now I’m watching him hungrily shovel rice into his mouth with chopsticks. I have to give him credit, at least. He knows how to use them.

* * *

It’s not so bad, laying to sleep in a cheap motel with nice, clean sheets and a running A/C. Aljoscha had gone to go drink at a late-night bar. Flake is in the shower, taking advantage of the unlimited hot water. Paul is seated on the floor, back against the wall, scribbling into his journal. I’m merely laying on my back, hands folded over my stomach, thinking of the future and what will come of it. I also think about Paul, but only because his presence is made known to me by that noisy scratching of his pencil.

During dinner, he had attempted to hold a civil conversation with me, without any remarks or prodding attempts at my patience. We talked about woodwind playing and opera. From there, we stemmed off onto rabbit trails until we were laughing about nostalgic memories and whatever bullshit we could come up with to talk about. It seemed to relax everyone, considering the other two would join in until the whole table was laughing. It was a good time despite my initial frustration.

Now, I feel almost somber in a way. Like I was homesick, but not quite. I don’t miss home. Maybe I just miss comfort. Contentment. Because I haven’t felt that ever since we left.

“Hey, Schneider?” Paul speaks up then, breaking my thoughts. I hum lowly, a prompt for him to continue. Paul is silent for a moment. Contemplative. I wait patiently.

“Can I join you?” he asks. I’m the one to pause now. Why would he want to join me? I thought he was sleeping on the floor tonight.

“Uh. Sure.” I decide to humor him.

He gets up, setting aside his journal. I look over, seeing him approach the hotel bed. He’s wearing his typical gray sweatpants and a hoodie, as he does for bed. He climbs on. Seeing his smaller, skinnier form crawling over my legs to my other side strikes something hot in my core. I don’t know what it means. I ignore it.

“What is it?” I demand, moving to prop up on my elbows. He flops down beside me, resting on his side, facing me. He searches my guarded face. He gives me a faint smile. Reaching out slowly, Paul is moving to touch me. I freeze, training my gaze on his slim fingers. He traces my furrowed eyebrows with the pads of his fingertips. I reflexively relax them. He drops his hand and says, “There. Was bothering me all day. You furrow your brow a lot.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. So I say nothing. I just stare at him. He then moves to lay on his back, resting his head against one of the pillows. But then he springs back up onto an elbow, surprising me momentarily, and then rips out his ponytail. His choppy hair explodes around his head, completely messy. He drops his head back down on the pillow—I guess the hairband was digging into his head. I watch him slip the hairband onto his wrist.

“Do you remember that party at the beach, where Flake went swimming in his clothing?”

I do. Four years ago. The mere mention of it has something queasy and nervous twisting in my stomach. I already know what he’s going to bring up.

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Do you remember how drunk we got?”

I try not to. We drank so much, I was barely coherent. I don’t often drink to that degree of severity, but I wanted to let loose. I had gotten into a huge fight with my parents and I wanted to think about nothing but the present. Paul was my present. He drifted between me, Flake, and a couple girls, but inevitably came to me, like I was meant to be there for him. His sanctuary, for whatever reason. A steadfast presence, even if I was as drunk as he was. We sat together on the sand, watching the three fires burning along the beach, betting on which will die first. We were seated so far back, we were the outliers. No one looked at us, a pair of drunk idiots hidden in the shadows of the night. Paul had me laughing louder than I had laughed before. The moment had ebbed away into something foreign when he took my hand in his and threaded our fingers together. I was shocked. Paul wasn’t. He behaved like it was commonplace between us. He leaned his head against my shoulder. When he talked, he propped his chin against me and spoke. I would look at him, and his face would be right there, his eyes searching in me endlessly. I caught him staring at my lips, but he seemed undeterred by that. Shameless in his display.

I withdraw from the memory, and remain silent, apprehensive. He looks at me. He must be waiting for an answer. I nod. I move to lay my head back down. He lets out a deep breath, panning his eyes up from my face to the ceiling.

“I should have kissed you,” he murmurs. I can see him, in my peripheral vision, scrubbing his hands over his face with a sigh. My insides seize. My face bursts with a heat. I can’t believe what I just heard.

“What?” I stupidly say. He looks at me again. I can’t even begin to summon the courage to return the glance.

“Would that be okay? If I kissed you?” he asks, painfully bold as always. “I mean, I don’t know. Sometimes you seem… Curious. Like you wouldn’t mind it.”

God. Have I really been that transparent? It never even occurred to me that I had been behaving in a way that implied that. Considering it’s taken him years to bring it up, ever since that beach party, I guess it hasn’t occurred to him… Until recently. Which makes sense. I hadn’t felt confused by myself like this until… Well. I guess until I began to really know Paul.

To know the guy past all the shit that he pulled for the last eight years or so. When I began to notice the man he grew to be, even if it took him a long fucking time to mature mentally. Even now, I still question how old he really is. Despite that, he’s filled out that baby face. Muscle has replaced the wire. Confidence to express himself beyond the persona of a punk rocker. No longer faking it to make it. Ever since the wall fell, Paul became _Paul._ Maybe I coveted that confidence as much as I was attracted to it.

I don’t even know anymore.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, resolved. If Paul is able to express himself as he is now, I should be able to as well. I don’t even know what I want, or what I’m feeling. I just know that kissing Paul feels like an answer. An answer for what I don’t know.

“Do you want me to?” he asks, idiotically. I release a deep exhale, fixing my gaze on the closed hotel door. I almost wish Aljoscha would come back and suddenly put an end to this, or Flake would step out of the bathroom. No such thing happens. The running of the shower fills in the gap my silence makes.

“Don’t ask me that,” I mutter, after lengthy deliberation to my answer. None come. I have nothing to say. I won’t give him what he wants: my vulnerability.

“Then I’m going to kiss you,” he says quietly, albeit firmly, determined, “If you want me to stop, you’ll let me know.”

I finally look over at him, past my mess of curls. Paul takes the opportunity to search my face. It’s weird, looking at him following this exchange. I’ve seen this idiot completely nude, on multiple occasions. I’ve seen him vomit up an ungodly concoction of some sort of noodle dish he proudly made. He has comforted me when I felt conflicted about my girlfriend, and then the next day cracked jokes about it in front of others, as if it wouldn’t affect me. He told me about his difficult childhood, a very private part of him I never thought I would hear about. When I would describe my struggle with my parents, he’d brush it off, saying I was privileged because my dad was well-off. I’ve felt incredibly close to him, like I could trust him with anything, and also crushingly distant. Hurt. I’ve been hurt by him. But now, I’m not sure what I feel. Maybe a bit of both.

Paul slides over, closer to me, propped up on his elbows. He looks down at my stoic face with curious eyes.

“You seem indifferent,” he muses. I sense disappointment in his tone. I’m not sure what this means. What he expected me to do, or say.

“I’m not,” I murmur—I feel guilty enough to at least give him some peace of mind. I know what it feels like to be treated like a chore. That my advances are more bothersome than anything. That I’m not even worth the effort. That I’m more ugly than I am handsome. That I’m more unwanted than wanted. Even if Paul can be such a little fucking prick at times, I care about his feelings. I don’t want him to feel that way. Not with me, not in _this_ way.

Paul smiles faintly at that, eyebrows raising. His bleached hair is just a disaster around his face, and like always, it really needs a wash. The shower turns off in the bathroom, just then. Our time is running out. _His_ time is running out. Paul blinks, and then immediately moves into action. Before I can even think to adjust myself, he cups one hand around my cheek, turns my head gently, and leans in to press our mouths together—just like that. It’s a very awkward first kiss. His mouth is slotted at an odd angle against my own.

My heart begins to pound. I feel something like adrenaline shoot through my veins. I break the kiss to move up onto an elbow, to fix that atrocity of a position. He pulls back just enough to search my face, as if looking for any protest—there is none. I know our time is limited, but I won’t be the one to make the move. I’m a bit uncertain, sick, uncomfortable, but I want him to. I’m anxious of Flake bursting out of the bathroom, even if that’s ridiculous, because he takes just as long to dry off and redress. Paul searches in my eyes. I try not to let my fear show on my face.

He leans over again, angling his head. He closes his eyes as he gently presses our mouths together again. I feel fingertips lightly touch my jawline. My face is aflame, my stomach flipping. I close my eyes, brow knitting. I itch to touch him in return, a desire born so suddenly it surprises me. I don’t touch him. Instead, I kiss him.

Our lips move together, uncoordinated and almost shy at first. His lips are soft and very warm under my own. His nose is pressing to my cheek. He kisses me confidently. Somehow, it becomes open-mouthed, enough for me to feel his breathing and taste his saliva. Meek and careful, our lips slide and gently crush together. Comfortable with a slow dance, too scared to make it a tango.

The response of my body is the most alarming of all. My stomach is absolutely rolling with the heat of arousal. Like it had been dormant all this time, waiting. I can smell Paul’s undeniably masculine scent, can taste _him_ on my tongue, feel the rough skin of his fingers and palm when he moves to cup my cheek. The fact he is a man confuses the hell out of my mind, but my body is responding to it. My dick is stiffening, blood rushing straight to my groin.

Paul pulls away with a wet disconnection of our mouths. Once again, I find myself surprised by how disappointed I am. I can barely open my eyes to look at him, I’m so overwhelmed and flustered. He’s biting his lip, looking at me with dilated eyes. God, he looks delicious. I’m breathing hard myself.

“See, I knew it,” Paul says with a grin, his eyes twinkling. I furrow my brow again, looking at him with mild confusion. He closes the distance to peck me once more on the mouth, in a firm, brief kiss similar to something lovers would share. It’s somehow so much more intimate than the longer kiss we just shared. That short kiss had so much meaning and intimacy within it, it stuns me. Like a kiss mark left behind on a love letter. He pulls back and smiles sweetly at me with pleased eyes and pink cheeks. What the fuck. Why is he being so cute all of a sudden?

“Kn-knew what?” I stammer, bringing a hand up to subconsciously scrub at my mouth. He huffs and rolls his eyes like it was obvious. I become a little self-conscious at that.

“You’re gay! At least, a little bit,” he confidently states, as if he knew it all along. I bristle up, my defensiveness peaking.

“Shut up! No, I’m not! I’ve kissed you, that’s it. You’re just _one_ guy, Paul.”

I’ve only been attracted to women my entire life. That hasn’t changed. Paul snorts.

“I’m not sure that’s how it works, Schneider.”

Before I can even begin to argue it, the bathroom door unlocks with a snap of the handle. Paul lurches off of me and sits up straight. I adjust myself on my elbows and glance over. Flake comes out, ruffling a towel over his head. He’s dressed in a striped sweater that hangs loosely from his lean torso, and a pair of boxers. He looks up at us both, and that’s it. He averts his gaze, and beelines his way back into the bathroom. Paul snorts beside me. I hear Flake begin to brush his hair.

“Well, okay,” Paul laughs, and then suddenly, he shoots up from the bed, hurries his way over to his nest on the floor, and plops down to continue writing in his journal. I just continue laying there, feeling quite awkward, wondering what the hell that was about.

Meanwhile, my dick is still rather hard in my pants, and I don’t know what to do about that. It seems like Paul didn’t even notice. Good. I would rather he didn’t. I turn over onto my side, tucking it under my pelvis to hide it, and nuzzle into the freshly-cleaned pillow of the hotel bed.

While I may be _attempting_ to settle in comfortably, my mind is racing. I keep thinking about how it felt to kiss him. How soft and confident his lips were. The way he dived in to kiss me once it became apparent Flake was going to come out soon—like he didn’t want to waste the opportunity, he didn’t want to waste any time at all. How long has he wanted to do it? And how come _I_ wanted to do it? I find him unbearable half the time. He’s an asshole.

But kissing him—God, that was so different from what I anticipated. I didn’t want it to stop. I wanted us to keep going. To go beyond just that. To touch. To undress. To see him naked in a way beyond what I’ve seen before. But what does that represent about myself? That I want him, even after everything? I can hear his pencil scratching against the paper, and it only keeps me aware of his presence, despite the distance between us.

Flake emerges a few minutes later, and begins talking to Paul about going out to fetch some snacks from the vending machines. Paul agrees. I can hear them shuffling about, pulling on pants and shoes. I don’t move. I feel unusually self-conscious. I feel a hand patting my calf, which I don’t appreciate. It’s Paul, evidently, because he squeezes me there and asks, “Schneider, want anything?”

“…Surprise me,” I mumble, focused entirely on the grip around my calf.

“Will do,” Paul answers, and then they leave with a firm shut of the door. I proceed to melt into the bed, burning up with the realization that I would very much like to fuck Paul. Great. Just great.

* * *

The remainder of the trip passes in a daze. I feel unusually distant from Paul since the kiss. Fleeting recollections of our shared moment of intimacy often float through my mind, but I fling them away as abruptly as they come. Paul doesn’t address it, and seems to be on the same page as me: pretending it didn’t happen. Flake goes home to Berlin after the conclusion of our spectacularly-failed trip to explore music in America. Aljoscha runs off to Mexico for a vacation, I guess. I don’t know. I didn’t ask.

We did have plans to fly to New York to visit clubs, for the sake of exposure to the kind of music more northern. It would’ve fallen apart by the seams considering the other two stopped giving a fuck and left. But, Paul seemed determined to make something out of this. I know that Paul always had great determination when it came to music, which is why I had been so pissed that he seemed like he didn’t care. Maybe the other two acted as bad influences on him. Once they were out of the picture, Paul essentially grabbed me by the sleeve and demanded we finish the trip and go to New York. Finally, I sensed some enthusiasm in him and it lightened my own irritation at the others.

The flight to New York is almost fun, with him. We draw the stupidest shit in his journal, until we’re both giggling. We end up with Flake eating his keyboard, which seemed to expend our effort in drawing, because everything else is nonsensical and complete trash. Eventually, we land, and we shuffle our way out of the plane, onto the soil of New York, and proceed to enact the annoying hassle of finding a hotel.

The same night, we eat out at two separate locations. First, we get some food at a stand by a park, and then sit in a hole-in-the-wall pizza place, because we had limited time and Paul wanted to try out as much food as possible. Once sufficiently stuffed with portion sizes typical of America, we seek out a club after we successfully deduce who’s playing, and where. Took far too much effort than needed, but our English is collectively poor.

It’s become fun, spending time with Paul. Maybe Flake and Aljoscha unknowingly encourage Paul to put on a façade, but when it’s just the two of us, it’s not too bad. When it’s not about music, Paul and I have the most outrageous conversations, and I like that he can make me laugh. At the clubs we visit, we grab drinks, listen and discuss with smiles.

As our three nights in New York progress and eventually come to an end, I decide that maybe friendship _is_ possible with Paul. Maybe, somehow, Paul will learn to grow and blossom more than he already has. And maybe I will, too.

**Author's Note:**

> babypaulchen.tumblr.com


End file.
